The Hours
by silviaelisa
Summary: In the space of one day, from morning to the witching hour, a lot can happen. Especially to Hermione Granger, celebrity heroine of the wizarding world, and Draco Malfoy, stalkerish shop-keeper. One-shot, written for H&V – Reverse Challenge 2010.


**A/N:** Written for Phase I of Hawthorn & Vine's Reverse Challenge 2010. Loosely inspired by Virginia Woolf's _Mrs. Dalloway_ (I said loosely), plus it's an experiment on omniscient narration. I tried to include as much as possible from the art (_"Midnight Escape" _by – link to be posted in my bio) and I have to thank **sitrusky** for keeping an open mind about it. Honestly, I hope you'll like it! Also, a massive credit goes to **callarose**, because I don't know what I would have done if the story hadn't won your approval. You are a blessing.

**Disclaimer:** _This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling. The author of the following story (which is me) has no connection to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic Books or Warner Bros., Inc. – No money is being made from this, no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

* * *

If Hermione had known about her day in advance, she told herself that she wouldn't have got out of bed that morning, and she most certainly wouldn't have gone to Diagon Alley.

Yet, if the truth were known, she would have been a blinking idiot not to go through with it anyway; her ordinary, if mildly colourless, existence was in much need of a change of pace.

* * *

A casual observer, as was the case with most of the wizarding population in Britain, would have declared that the young woman walking down Diagon Alley looked perfectly at ease with the incessant whispering that followed her. Hermione Granger, famous, legendary, envied Hermione Granger, turned heads wherever she went, and her unusual trek downtown was no exception.

The young witches stole glances at her to gossip about her appearance. What was she wearing? Would those bizarre Muggle clothes look good on them? The young wizards shook their heads and pretended to be annoyed, but not one of them failed to check out the legs of the war heroine as her skirt swayed with each unfaltering step. The elder members of the community, though, nitpicked her manners at the latest Ministry event; her loud laugh featured prominently in their conversations, but her lack of a date was the shocking news of the latest hour.

At this point, our casual observer would claim to have been Confounded upon noticing the absence of the other two members of the heroic trio. Seeing Hermione Granger appear in public without Harry Potter and Ron Weasley by her side was an occurrence rather unique than rare.

Leaving behind the tattlers, Hermione had by then walked the length of Diagon Alley, uncharacteristically refraining from stopping by the window of Flourish and Blotts. That action alone incited even more whispering, for word had it that the owner of the bookshop re-arranged the window in a different way every morning, just for her. That day, he had decided to put on display the second edition of _Where There's a Wand, There's a Way_, remembering how the war heroine had commended the book at the fair in Hogsmeade.

The disturbing ritual didn't apply to the disposition of the flasks and vials in the Apothecary, but every other shop lit up as a Christmas tree for the occasional visits of the worshipped trio of the wizarding world. The cages inside Eeylops Owl Emporium and Magical Menagerie were rearranged with meticulous care, and the pristine mannequins of Madam Malkin's and Twilfitt and Tatting's periodically exhibited what the trio had worn at this or that social gathering. The community had quickly taken to these shows of devotion, and the scheduled walk that The Boy Who Lived made every morning, while escorting his friends to their job places, had become the highlight of the day. Harry, Ron and Hermione would always spare a minute for the shop owners in Diagon Alley, politely talk to the passers-by, and flash a few smiles for Witch Weekly.

But Hermione had just marched right past each and every one in the street, and the whispering increased at an exponential rate when she slipped into the purple building located at 129 without as much as a second glance. From his window within the main office of the Daily Prophet, reporter Creevey smirked as the front page of the following day's edition started forming in his mind.

Inside Whizz Hard Books, the glass door leading into the reception area clicked open and a witch all dressed in periwinkle peered up at Hermione from behind her desk.

"Good morning, Miss Granger," she said cheerfully. "Please, take a seat, Mrs. Goshawk will be with you in a moment."

Hermione nodded once, sitting down on the nearby sofa, knowing all too well she wouldn't be kept waiting for long. Few people dared leave unattended one of the members of the trio for more than a few minutes; her editor wasn't one of them.

She sighed.

If she had appeared at ease to our casual, clueless observer, nothing could be further from the truth.

The war heroine was weary of _being_ a war heroine.

The Battle of Hogwarts had been only two years before, but to Hermione it felt as if two whole centuries had already gone by. All she wanted to do was move on with her life, but it seemed that her wish wouldn't be granted for a long time. Without fail, the Ministry hosted a new soirée every month, to honour the heroes as well as all the good people lost in the war. Generally speaking, Hermione wasn't against keeping the memory of what horrors they had had to face fresh in everybody's minds, but the Ministry hadn't stopped there; new events materialised every week for the most trivial reasons. If the majority of wizards and witches had one single social gathering to attend every thirty days, no such luxury was available to the war heroes like her.

"Hermione!"

Mrs. Goshawk wasn't only the editor in chief of Whizz Hard Books, she was also married to famous author Miranda Goshawk's brother and, as such, had been in control of the publishing market for several years. Unseen by her distinguished client, she shot a reproachful glare at her secretary, then, apologising profusely for having left Hermione waiting, she ushered her into her office.

"You owled about some changes you wanted to make," Hermione stated once Mrs. Goshawk had sat back in her chair.

There were many things the two witches had argued about in the past, but they plainly agreed on one thing: honesty was the best policy. Nonetheless, they lied to each other just as plainly. Upon reading the manuscript, the editor had seen a potential best-seller in Hermione's book, but the timing just wasn't right. Mrs. Goshawk was in the midst of supervising the anniversary edition of _Quidditch Through The Ages_, due to hit the presses the following year, and Hermione's book couldn't compete with that.

As might be expected, Mrs. Goshawk failed to mention that particular detail to her distinguished client.

Hermione, for her part, patiently sat through another session of futile revisions to her work. She had known something was off the moment Mrs. Goshawk had spoken about "contingencies within the publishing house that had forced her hand"; she hated that sort of language. Partly because it reminded her of Dolores Umbridge, but mainly because she had to listen to people speaking that way every day at work. Mrs. Goshawk knew all that, of course, but it didn't make any difference as to how she conducted her business with her.

It was half past eleven when the editor finally conceded defeat, raising from her chair with a plastered smile on her face.

"A pleasure as always, Hermione," she said tersely. "I trust I'll see you next week."

"It goes without saying, Mrs. Goshawk."

Both women sighed heavily once they were on opposite sides of the front door of Whizz Hard Books, but the aged editor had the comfort of her office to get back to. Hermione still had a whole day ahead of her and a hellish Ministry event to attend that night; and she wasn't out of Diagon Alley yet. She kept a tight rein on her countenance when she was in public and the taxing process drained her, so that by the end of the day she was a shell of herself.

It was upon glancing distractedly at Flourish and Blotts's window that she made the rash decision of taking her time, wrecking the opportunity to tattle about her for the gossiping witches all around. She was well aware of them, especially of the lady wearing sickeningly eggplant-coloured robes that had not learnt how rude it was to point in public. What she wasn't aware of was the looming presence of one of the many shopkeepers of Diagon Alley: Draco Malfoy.

In the upscale world of war heroes, his existence barely registered with the members of the reformed wizarding world – a casual observer would certainly have failed to spot him on many a days – but Draco roamed the crooked street just as often as the trio did. After the Battle of Hogwarts, his family name had been dragged through the mud thanks to the publicly held hearings. For eight long months, he had feared he would end up spending most of his adult life in Azkaban. However, those he had childishly regarded as arch-nemeses had come forward to bear witness that his mother had helped the cause by lying to the Dark Lord; thus Draco had ended up owning his life to Harry Potter. Twice.

He stared at the bushy-haired witch from behind the window of the apothecary, rubbing clean a decanter with excessive energy. Everybody looked at her, everybody was interested in her. Draco had over time become one of those casual observers and to him, Hermione seemed to bask in the popularity that he scornfully regarded as his.

Hence why his grip on the piece of blown glass tightened to the point of breaking.

"Malfoy..." Mr. Borage, the owner, warned from the counter.

Draco mumbled unintelligible sounds, but he obediently withdrew from the window to set the decanter down on its shelf.

Mr. Borage inwardly sighed as he added aconite to the list of supplies they had run short of. It hadn't been his choice to take in the young wizard – not many of the shop-owners in Diagon Alley would have been willing to give Draco a job – but when the Wizengamot order had come with the post, he had been at least pleased to note the boy's excellent O.W.L.s in Potions. Mr. Borage didn't regret his charitable decision: Draco was a great asset, but the number of broken bottles and vials he had to replace because of the boy's temper never ceased to grow and, most of the time, it was due to the appearance of the heroic trio in Diagon Alley.

That meant that something ended up in pieces on a daily basis.

Draco knew how erratic his behaviour seemed to the wrinkled old man, and even if he always paid back every bit of glass he smashed, he could see that Mr. Borage had started worrying about him. The last thing he needed was for his employer to report him to the Ministry, so he had started to keep his temper in check and felt that they had come to a silent understanding on the matter.

Unfortunately for him, Mr. Borage felt otherwise.

"Say, Malfoy," he said, "what are your plans for the evening?"

Draco eyed the man strangely. It was Friday and, as he had learnt in his first week on the job, Fridays were when all the action happened at the Apothecary: supplies shipped in, orders sent out, and shelves stocked. His favourite day of the week. Even if he had never openly admitted it, Mr. Borage knew, but as Draco would have been about to find out, it was a Friday unlike any other.

Nonetheless, while Mr. Borage spoke about commitment and opportunities, Draco had wandered in front of the window again, oblivious to the pivotal one-sided conversation ongoing in the shop.

He played around with some of the flasks on display, but his attention was elsewhere. His gaze followed the swaying movement of Hermione's shoulders as she spoke with whomever was opposite her.

Draco unconsciously gritted his teeth.

Hermione, on the other hand, was smiling politely, though silently praying that Madam Malkin would stop harassing her about her dress for the evening. The _Spring Squill Soirée_ was the kind of party that reporters lived on, but tailors and fashion designers were just short of fanatical about it. The attentions of the well-known seamstress were nothing new to Hermione, but something else was bugging her, as if attentive eyes were fixed on her.

Muttering an apology, Hermione turned on the spot and foolishly misjudged her surroundings. She only saw the façade of the Apothecary, but not the shadow keeping out of sight in the shop window. Therefore, she shrugged and turned back to Madam Malkin.

"As I was saying, Miss Granger," the old witch said, making a point of sounding rather peeved, "I have owled the dress to your residence just this morning and –"

"I'll try it on as soon as I can," Hermione interrupted.

Madam Malkin wished to further discuss the matter, but the six years she had helped the girl with her school robes came back to her in a flash and she acted against her instinct. It had always been a nightmare to have her stand still through the measuring, which was exactly why she had agreed to _owl_ the dress in the first place, instead of waiting for Hermione to show up at her shop. She had learnt her lesson.

"Oi, boy!" Mr. Borage called, and Draco turned away from the window just as Hermione walked past Madam Malkin to get to the entrance of the Leaky Cauldron.

* * *

The _Spring Squill Soirée_ had taken nobody by surprise – not when the Ministry had made sure that it was properly and overly advertised by the press. By and large, it wasn't the event of the year, but it was a moment of relaxed diversion before the national memorial day in May, and the promotion for that event started that night. The Ministry did not do things by halves, after all.

If anyone had momentarily forgotten who had planned the event, one look at the location of the soirée would be all that it took to have it come back to them: a pink _château_. Surely, the notion that the castle didn't usually sport such a vivid hue had not escaped the minds of the guests. However, since there were so few looks of perfectly understandable disbelief, Lavender rested assured that she had done a magnificent job. She was so intoxicated with her supposed success that she barely registered when her old housemates came in, all three of them swallowing multiple times as they took in the venue.

Harry was soon suppressing a rather unmanly giggle.

"I wish I had dyed my hair purple," he said. "You know, to match the –"

Hermione earnestly shushed him when she caught Lavender looking at them.

Ron didn't say anything, but his gaze kept flicking between the walls of the main hall and his dress robes; listening to Mr. Twilfitt had seemed like a good idea at the time, but he was now regretting having given him _carte blanche._

Especially if the _blanche_ part turned out to be the same colour of a pink castle.

Harry valiantly took it upon himself to cheer him up and, once the initial shock was over, Ron was eager to join the crowd and mingle. Fruitlessly, they encouraged Hermione to do the same, but they knew her answer before she spoke it, and once she announced she was going to look for their table, Harry and Ron let her go with apologetic smiles. It was no secret between them that Hermione had grown tired of the way things were, but they were the beacon of hope of the whole community – resigning wasn't an option.

As if the rest of the hall hadn't been enough, the tables were ghastly pieces of furniture decked out in milky white, with even worse centrepieces consisting of twenty-four very red roses. Hadn't Hermione spotted the reporters closing in on her, she would have been severely tempted to dish out a not so pleasant remark about the _decorations_.

Later, she would have recalled a press conference of at least twenty minutes, but Draco knew better. It took her exactly seventeen minutes to get rid of the various journalists and columnists that hoped to get a pay rise out of her.

He had walked in just behind Hermione and her friends, but not Lavender, nor any of his former schoolmates, had spotted him. Less than an hour into the thing and he was already grabbing two fizzing chalices from the sumptuous starter buffet to carry with him outside the entrance doors, where he sat down on the marble steps.

After some minutes of blissful silence, the doors opened once more and Draco cursed his luck when a bushy-haired witch walked into view.

Only she wasn't bushy-haired at all that night, and if he had taken a moment to distance himself from his own gloom, he would have seen it too. As things were though, she soundlessly sat down too and she didn't appear to have noticed him.

They hadn't been this close since the small skirmish at Malfoy Manor, two years prior. As Draco watched as Hermione's muscles started to release the tension, the image of his aunt pressing a knife to her throat resurfaced, and he had to shake his head to clear his mind. Seconds later, when he cleared his throat to make his presence known, Hermione almost jumped out of her skin.

"Merlin! You people –" she started, but then she recognised him. "Malfoy?" she asked.

He didn't reply. Hermione's skin glowed pale in the light of the stars and his mind was still wrapped around the chilling memory they shared; he took a sip from his chalice to calm himself.

"Well? Aren't you going to say something?"

"Why should I?" he replied. "You're doing such a fine job at getting all worked up."

It was so much easier to fall into their usual pattern. In Draco's opinion, they both hadn't changed much, even if the circumstances had, and for that reason, she greatly surprised him when she half-heartedly huffed at his cheeky answer, only to avert her eyes and look at the starry sky above them.

"Please leave," she breathed, blank.

For a couple of seconds, Draco didn't move.

He hadn't expected her to be so unresponsive to his taunting; as weak as his attempt had been, he had thought that she'd give him hell for it. A small part of him had been hoping for such a reaction because then she'd _see_ him. It had been ages since someone had really looked at him, instead of pretending he didn't exist – one of the very few reasons he had let Mr. Borage drag him to that monstrous cornucopia of pink hues.

He sighed, ready to leave the chalices on the steps. He was about to stand up when he heard her speak softly.

"Malfoy, wait..."

Hermione didn't know why she called him back. Truthfully, she did, but it was one thing to acknowledge she was weary of the constant spotlight and another to concede that she was lonely. She gave herself a brief inner speech, as she often did, assuring herself that the only reason she had called him back was to prevent him from bothering her friends.

Never mind Harry having testified _for_ the guy, or Ron growing out of his juvenile animosity. It was a good speech and she had learnt to lie to herself without missing a beat.

"What are you doing here?"

Draco sat down again, eyeing her. He asked himself what had changed her mind, but of all the scenarios he conjured up in his mind, not once did he come close to the truth.

"Borage, the apothecary," he replied. "He made me come."

Hermione nodded. "My editor might have mentioned something about my book benefiting from the publicity that comes with my name."

"Ah, yes, your book."

Draco picked up the chalices and offered her one. The glass tinkled and they took a warming sip of the bubbly concoction.

"So, you don't drink much," he said after a small silence, "and you obviously don't smoke. What do you do?"

At first, Hermione stared at him uncomprehendingly, but then the pieces of the puzzle came together. Draco was asking about her escape button, what she did when she couldn't face the world anymore. Her answer would have been the result of another one of her speeches that she had oftentimes given herself, yet she chose to tell him the truth.

"Nothing," she said.

She didn't like how the Ministry was running things – the parties, the shameless hero-advertising – and thankfully she was entitled to her opinion, but she wasn't actually _doing_ anything. Mrs. Goshawk kept delaying the publication of her book, and though her work at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was commendable, as everyone repeatedly told her, that night wasn't the first time she had questioned if she couldn't do more.

She looked up just as Draco looked down at her; she hadn't realised she had been voicing her thoughts aloud. On the threshold of the _château_ though, Ginny watched the duo without understanding what was going on. She had almost forgotten that Draco Malfoy was still alive and that it was all thanks to her fiancé.

"So do more," Ginny heard him say.

She took a step forward. "There you are! We've been looking for you!"

Hermione scrambled to her feet, feeling as though she had been caught doing something unbecoming by her parents, or worse, the press. She assured Ginny she would be inside in a second and in doing so missed Draco's departure from the steps, because once she turned back to him, he wasn't there anymore.

* * *

Midnight was drawing near by the time Hermione managed to escape the hall once more. Draco was on the steps, again, but he was standing; he was waiting for her.

"Come on," he said simply. "Let's get out of here."

In time, they would come to the enlightened conclusion that she wasn't his way _in _, as much as he was her way _out_, but not yet.

"If you're so desperate to leave, then why are you still here?" Hermione asked.

"To spite you," he replied easily, but when she huffed and started to turn away, he added the other half of the truth. "And to prove a point."

Hermione's eyebrows rose, demanding a less cryptic answer.

"I'm invisible," he said.

She sighed, mentally comparing him to how she classified books. He was either a very good book, with a very confusing beginning, but home to a bewitching story, or an extremely dull one that was trying to be interesting.

Had Draco known, he would have feared of being the latter, but secretly hoped to be the former.

"What are you talking about?"

"Look around, Granger," Draco began. "This is the second time you've come out here, don't you think somebody ought to have noticed? Where is the whispering, the pointing?"

If she really put her mind to it, Hermione would be sure to notice that Draco Malfoy's name hadn't been mentioned in the papers in a long, long time. The last time had been around the final days of his hearing and, even then, Harry's testimony had been still more newsworthy than him.

The war heroine stared at the outcast in silent contemplation. Nobody even looked at him, nobody was remotely interested in him – clearly, in Hermione's eyes, he had been blessed with good luck.

"You're invisible."

"That I am," Draco replied, tipping his chalice to her.

She gulped down the last swig of bubbles and took his proffered hand.

"I'm in," she said as reporters swarmed from the open doors to hang around them like vultures.

Hermione turned a deaf ear, not that it did anything to stop them from staring, flashing cameras, pointing and, most annoyingly, whispering. She only chanced one glance at her friends when she heard Ron shout her name, and she was glad to see Harry and Ginny smile.

She took Draco's hand and waved at reporter Creevey, standing between them and the pink_ château _with a camera in his hands.

"Make sure they get your good side," she whispered.

* * *

_FINIS._


End file.
